


Up the Hill Backwards

by Silberias



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 02:07:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4985908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silberias/pseuds/Silberias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stannis knows he's no hero nor an ideal husband. What he doesn't know is that not all heroes are handsome knights from the songs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Up the Hill Backwards

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tommyginger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tommyginger/gifts).



> So, here's the down-low:
> 
> I wanted to write a nice thing for TheSweetestThing, but was at a loss for what to write. So I went to the dirty trashbaby fortune-teller in the woods and offered up my ~~firstborn~~ talents in exchange for a prompt. That prompt turned into The Blood of the First Men. 
> 
> Up the Hill Backwards is my payment for that prompt--some good ole hurt/comfort Stannis/Sansa for my dirty trashbaby Tommy. I might have to go back to the drawing board and write a different story, in case this one is too unoriginal or sad for my dtb, but here we go!

**The vacuum created**   
**by the arrival of freedom**   
**And the possibilities it seems to offer**

**00 David Bowie, Up the Hill Backwards**

* * *

 

Stannis wondered, as he sought out his wife, if he worried more about his future now than he ever had in his life. Winning the throne was as Robert had said--far easier than sitting it. At the time Stannis had scoffed. Robert was wayward and irresponsible in matters of state, and disliked the tedium of ruling. Stannis, who had ruled Storm's End first and then the realm's navy and then Dragonstone, had thought himself somewhat more prepared. That he went into this with open, knowing eyes.

He had been so woefully wrong. The nobility whose allegiance he won surrounded him, their requests for favor and station like the snapping of wolf jaws, and then there was the question of an heir. He had precedence for Shireen to take the throne after him--he hated to rely on courtly intrigues controlled tacitly by the Faith and the Citadel of Oldtown, but his family descended from Argella Durrendon, Mariah Martell, and Rhaelle Targaryen. Argella had been destined to inherit after her father Argillac, Mariah had been meant for the Sun Chair of Sunspear before her marriage to Daeron II, and his grandmother Rhaelle had been the only dutiful Targaryen of her generation. The Baratheon claim was a good one.

But he was not Dornish. His people were not, for the most part, Dornish. They were not fierce Mormonts of the North, either.

So he had married, despite grieving his wife's murder at the hands of Melisandre. He had married probably the last highborn maiden in Westeros, the sister of the traitor Robb Stark--Lady Sansa Stark. Queen Sansa Baratheon, now, and the source of all his new worries. He had spent a good while assuring her that he would wait as long as necessary for a son from her but had not expected difficulties other than time.

HIs young wife had bled out one babe already--too new to know it's sex, but she had been ill for many weeks. Stannis had been away, dealing with Frey bandits, and had been met by Sansa's Dornish maester in the palace stables. The man, black-skinned and so whip thin it showed even through his thick robes, had at least waited until Stannis had his feet under him. He might have otherwise fallen from his horse as worry seized him.

Lady Rhaelle had miscarried many times after the birth of Lord Steffon, never again bearing a child. Then there were Sansa's own grandmothers--dead in the birthing chamber--and her aunt who would have had more children than Oberyn Martell had bastards if she'd not bled so many out. It was heartless, he knew, but he had married Sansa so she might give him children. He'd wondered, walking through the keep and towards his wife's rooms, if he was somehow cursed.

Now he searched her out again, as always worrying over her. Stannis grimaced--worrying after the swell of her belly, far more advanced this time. She would deliver their firstborn in a month's time, maybe less given the greatness of her stomach. Stannis paused in the middle of his wife's chambers, listening briefly to her speaking to Shireen out on the balcony for she would not appreciate his worries today as she had not appreciated them the week before nor the week before that.

"I know you do not like it, I do not either sweetling," Sansa said, and through the curtains he saw her sitting across from Shireen. A sheet of parchment lay between them, covered in dense writing, and Sansa leaned forward awkwardly to touch her finger to it.

"But you are going to have a boy, my brother, and then everything changes," Shireen said in reply, slumping in the most unladylike manner in her chair. Listening to them, and glimpsing their faces through the curtains that fluttered in the afternoon breeze, Stannis could hardly believe that a bare two years separated them. Despite everything at fifteen Shireen was still a girl.

At seventeen Sansa was a woman grown.

"I may not have a boy, Shireen, or the child might," there was the barest pause as his wife overcame a catch in her throat, "might die. We cannot rest all our hopes on one thing, it is something your father struggles to remember and I think you may have learned the same habit. You are, the two of you, idealists far beyond any I have met."

Idealists?

"Idealists?"

Sansa might have a point, if their thoughts were so alike.

"Yes, you are both so hopeful. So hopeful it pains you, and you scowl," Sansa replied, retracting her hand and laying her arm across her belly. Her thumb swept from side to side, contemplative and soothing, "I didn't quite know what to do with myself when I first came here. Of course you are young and hope for different things than your father, so you do not scowl quite so much as he. Thank the Old Gods and the New that you do not grind your teeth yet," she said, humor touching her tone. Her eyes, until then fixed on Shireen's, fell to the parchment between them.

"But I am not as hopeful a person as either of you. Maester Alleras never told your father, but the first babe was a girl. Do you know how much that frightens me?"

Stannis' heart clenched painfully. He had told her he could wait for a son, hadn't he? Maester Alleras and Maester Fraen had both told him repeatedly not to stress his wife. To let her feel assured of his support and to offer her whatever comfort he could afford her. Had he failed her so badly? But Sansa wasn't done speaking.

"The only woman in the last seventy five years in my family who had first-born girls was my grandmother Minisa, who died in the birthing bed. This little one could take me away from both of you, and leave your father in turmoil. I can't leave things undone," she said softly, reaching across the table and taking Shireen's hand.

"So we must look through our lists for a suitable Lord Consort, should you ascend to the throne. And what sort of man do we look for?"

"Someone of high enough birth to merit a royal marriage," Shireen repeated, her voice as subdued as Stannis himself felt, "but not so high as to think himself the King of Westeros. A man preferably under the age of thirty, but we may cast our eye to those up to the age of forty." Sansa gave a smile at her step-daughter's answer. Stannis looked down, ashamed that his daughter might have to wed a man the age of her father--as Sansa herself had.

" I am feeling a little tired now, Shireen, and will lay down," Sansa said now, awkwardly pushing herself up to stand, "you may continue if you wish it, but I would have you reading tales of the Rhoynar if that suits you," she continued, briefly grasping Shireen's shoulder as she passed. Stannis jerked, realizing he was about to be seen--

"Your Grace," Sansa said, her shoulders straightening into perfect posture as she glimpsed him through the drapes.

"My Queen," he replied, "daughter," he added when Shireen jumped up to stand next to Sansa. He tried to curtail the curl of satisfaction in his belly, seeing his daughter and his pregnant wife standing together. Sansa did not like being examined weekly by the maester but Stannis did not want her to lose her child. There were enough people in the Realm who thought him an ill-fit for King, some speaking his own fears of a curse outright.

"I apologize Your Grace, the Princess Shireen and I were reviewing the nobler houses in Westeros," Sansa said, breaking the silence. Stannis nodded, her earlier words echoing in his mind as he hesitated. She was afraid, but this was the first he'd heard of it in bold truth.

"I applaud such diligence," he forced himself to say, "I wondered if my wife would accompany me on a short walk." Sansa frowned, making no effort to hide her displeasure.

"A walk to Maester Fraen's?" Stannis found it in himself to twitch his lips out of a frown for a moment, trying to lighten the situation.

"Perhaps--or perhaps I would share your company for an afternoon?" he lifted his arm to her and Sansa crossed the room to take it. Her gait was graceful despite the advanced state of her pregnancy. Stannis led them out to the gardens where he put one arm around her lower back and walked slowly.

"I will not permit our child to take you from me," he said eventually, staring straight ahead down the avenue through the flowers of Spring. It was perhaps the first time he'd realized that he had an attachment to her--and even more telling, that it was such a strong one. Sansa huffed a laugh, putting her arm hesitantly around his waist as well.

"You might have defeated the darkness in the North, my lord, but you cannot stop the Smith from hammering the steel of men's fates nor the Mother from humming her lullabies nor even the Stranger from his reaping. My fears are probably unfounded," she said quietly.

"But still you fear?"

"I am not an idealist. My father, mother, brothers, and sister were idealists. Even poor Jon Snow was an idealist before his Brothers stabbed him. Whoever his mother was, she brought him luck that the rest of us did not have."

Stannis scoffed at the implication that she thought him an idealist despite everything he had done or prepared for.

"A girl," he said softly after a few more quiet paces, "the first was a girl."

"Yes, I call her Catelyn when I--when I pray for her," she choked out, stopping and hanging her head as she cried. Stannis was paralyzed for a breath before he wrapped her up in his arms, letting her weep and snuffle into his tunic. They'd never grieved their child's death, not together. Not aloud.

"You'll hold this one," he found himself saying, his voice full of steely conviction as he spoke, "you'll nurse this one, you'll kiss this one's fat cheeks. We'll name it--we'll name it Arya, for a girl, and Rickon for a boy." Gradually her tears eased and he put a finger under her chin to tilt her head up for a kiss. Sansa's lips were soft on his and he kissed her firmly, wanting to brand her as his with only his mouth.

"What if--"

He interrupted her.

"You are my wife, my perfect wife, you are stronger than any woman, any man, I have ever met," Stannis paused but then a sudden bizarrely fanciful notion took him, "you ought to have been Dornish, surviving so many wars and imbeciles." Sansa's eyes, reddened from weeping, closed tightly as she laughed then. Stannis let the tiniest of smiles flit across his lips as he watched her face.

"I would have you smiling thus," he said quietly, hands gently cupping her jaw as he leaned down to press his forehead to hers, "I have grown to depend on you without even knowing it. My practical, lovely wife. How do I deserve you? Certainly nothing divine would waste such a woman on a man like me," he murmured, rubbing his nose against hers. Fresh tears fell against his thumbs as he did so.

"Well, the Gods answer our prayers in mysterous ways--and I wanted a hero. A hero," Sansa whispered, taking one of his hands from her face and pressing the palm first to her breast--her heart thudded strongly beneath his fingers--and then down to the swell of her stomach. Stannis swallowed thickly for he knew he was no hero--

"I prayed for a hero who would take all their heads for what they did to my family, who would cherish me, who would punish the people who hurt me. And you did," she said, her whisper so soft it was almost lost in the fluttering leaves on the trees around them, "you did."

Beneath his hand their child pushed a foot out and into his palm, stretching Sansa's flesh as it did so. Stannis' heart fluttered and his mouth went dry. Despite all the visits to the maester, he himself had not once touched her pregnant belly. After this he was not sure he would ever be able to stop--becoming even more brazen than Robert had been with his lovers and demanding that Sansa drape herself across his lap in the throne room so he could feel their babe's kicks and twists.

A tear slipped down his cheek, and then another.

"It was my duty to the realm, and then to my queen," he managed to say, his voice breaking. Sansa lifted up on her toes for a moment to kiss the corner of his mouth.

"I never required it of you nor asked. You just knew," she said, her free hand lifting to thread into the curls at the nape of his neck.

"Do not leave me, Sansa."

"I'll try not to," she acquiesced with a light smile.

A fortnight later she went to the birthing chamber, attended by Maester Alleras. Stannis was forbidden from the room, his Kingsguard as well as his Hand--the ever stalwart Davos Seaworth--surrounding him and ensuring he did not barge in despite his wife's screams. Every night since that revelatory afternoon he had slept at her side, holding her hand tightly even in his sleep, and it was a sharp ache now that he could not touch her or look upon her face.

He did have the comfort that Sansa's sworn sword, Brienne of Tarth, was in the chamber with her--but it was not enough when he heard the loudest screams yet, a crescendo of encouraging voices rising in time with his wife's anguished cries. Then there was quiet for a moment before a babe's wails joined the voices inside. Stannis breathed half a sigh of relief, but did not relax.

An heir was of little concern--he had Shireen and could throw all support behind her if he needed to--now he wanted his wife to come out of this healthy. Stannis wanted years of joy with Sansa as he'd been deprived of seemingly his entire life--but her screams were rising once more, and the encouraging voices were firmer now. Stannis bent his head foreward, not in prayer but at least concentration, and clenched his teeth tightly. It was not fair, he admitted to himself, and so little in his life had been fair.

The wailing of the babe was doubled suddenly and Stannis choked on air as he almost stumbled there in the hallway. Ser Brynden Blackfish, possibly the only close blood family Sansa had left, caught his elbow and guided him to sit down. Stannis couldn't hear a thing, his blood raced and pounded and he lost track of all time--but then Brienne of Tarth was opening the door to the birthing chamber. The Blackfish helped him to stand, clapping him on the back and saying something Stannis still could not hear.

Stannis did not hold faith with the Gods--neither Old nor New received his prayers, but he would have the head of the Stranger himself if in giving him twins Sansa had lost her own life. He would have her live, damn the consequences. He would have fairness in this--his children ought to have a mother who loved them, he would have a wife who desired and took comfort in him, and he would not tolerate it if the creatures that men called Gods had taken Sansa.

Stannis need not have worried.

Sitting in the bed set up in the chamber was Sansa, cheeks stained red from exertion and hair soaked from sweat that still glistened on her brow. In her arms two infants whimpered and grunted in their swaddling, their faces as red as their mother's, with their mouths pouting from the fatness of their cheeks.

"My love," he said, his voice hoarse as he knelt at her side, "my Sansa."

"You have a son and another daughter," she said, her voice far more ragged than his own.

"And a wife, beautiful and clever and strong," he said, unable to keep his thoughts private even as they were observed by their guards and Maester Alleras. If her face hadn't been bright red already, Stannis was sure she would have blushed, and he felt drunk on the power that his words gave him. He managed to stand, his legs shaky as he bent over the bedside to take her face between his hands .

"You deserve far more than a man such as me, but I will endeavor to be worthy of you and everything you give me," he vowed, looking intently into her eyes. Sansa pulled her face up into a tired smile, turning to kiss at one of his palms.

"You already are, Stannis, for I would not have wed you or stayed in Westeros if you were not."

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment and let me know what you thought!


End file.
